I thought hot intense desires in time
calmed, that killing grief defeated the heart,
that after seven years no-one far off
would be able to hear my wretchedness;
but maybe instead the pain simply grows,
maybe it's the sun's ceaseless rotation--
not a pause--but I'm not crushed, and my wound
aches no less: my grief scorns time, I torment.
To burn for him, to cry forever is
no shame: call me Faithfulness herself, at
any rate she's been very dear to me.
I will not alter nor abandon this
rock which he loved, where I hope to fill these
bitter hours as once I filled the sweet.
|An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition|
From V CXV:115. See also B A2:29:70; R LVIII:163-164. Translations: Roscoe 141; Jerrold 79-80. Key